Our boy one turned 21 this week. He went out, had a great time, and then got sick, as he said, “at the end.” *giggles* We are so glad he stopped when he got sick.
It reminded me of my early drinking experiences.
I don’t really count, because I was allowed to drink at home, and in others’ homes, so drinking was not a novelty for me at 21.
My freshman year of college, my friends partied every weekend. I stayed in. I’d read and write and have such a good introverted time — at least until those girls would bring their drunk ass dramas to me in the middle of the night.
I’d sort out their fights, via my awesome mediation techniques, (or just by being the only sober person in the room.) Sometimes, the drama involved getting busted for underage drinking, which only made my decision to stay in more appealing. At least once a month, one of those three girls got sick.
By the time Spring rolled around, they could not wait to take me out and get me, Miss Goody Two-Shoes, positively wasted. They had a great plan. They’d take me to a frat party with guys who would mark us as 21, so we wouldn’t get into trouble with the attending police. They would get me all kindsa fucked up, and they would laugh and laugh, they said.
The beer wasn’t working fast enough, they said. The punch didn’t have enough kick, they said. It was best to get serious, they said. I did shots of vodka, grape syrupy stuff, and jello shots. They thought that’d do the trick.
I went outside to cool off from the dancing, where I found a guy I dated in high school. He shared his flask of Irish whiskey.
Sadly, my friends got quite sick. Cindy decided to stay with Michelle, who was passed out on the basement floor. I had to take Abby home before she passed out.
I called a cab, because I couldn’t walk a completely shitfaced Abby for half a mile, and she sure couldn’t walk herself.
When we got into the cab, my dear shitfaced friend turned to me, and shouted, “This was supposed to be YOU! You were supposed to be sick!”
“I know. I’m so sorry.” I petted her hair.
She leaned up and slurred to the cab driver, “What’s your name?”
“Scott, my name is Abby, and you must never, ever let me drink this much again.”
“Thank you, Scott.”
Abby was so drunk she didn’t even remember where we lived.
Abby was so drunk, the cabby had to help me get her onto the elevator.
Abby was so drunk, she was afraid to be alone, because she might die.
I was just fiiine.